Murder On The Wichita: Fen Maguire Mystery, #4

By Bruce Hammack

Fraud, deception, murder… what else awaits this detective along the banks of the muddy Wichita?

 

Substituting for an art professor on medical leave, artist and private detective Fen Maguire is asked to investigate a long-standing cold case. Seven years ago, a real estate broker swindled local residents out of millions, then disappeared without a trace. Her victims want their money and they want justice.

 

When the reporter who wrote exposé articles on the fraud victims is found dead, the police have a new crime to solve. With the senior detective no longer interested in solving the fraud case, Fen gets no help from the police. The waters get even murkier when he discovers the paths of the missing broker and the dead journalist intersect.

 

Digging deep into the past, he finds a long list of people with reason to kill both the reporter and the real estate broker. When the senior police detective refuses to believe there's a connection, Fen is left on his own to follow the trail to the money… and the killer.

 

Join PI Fen Maguire as he investigates a cold fraud case and gets a murder thrown in to boot! Suspects swirl around him like the snowflakes he puts on canvas. Murder On The Wichita, delivers a twisting, turning Christmas mystery with no foul language, violence, gore or sexual scenes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jubilee Publishing
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958252147

Bruce Hammack

Drawing from his extensive background in criminal justice, Bruce Hammack writes contemporary, clean read detective and crime mysteries. He is the author of the Fen Maguire Mystery series, the Smiley and McBlythe Mystery series and the Star of Justice series. Having lived in eighteen cities around the world, he now lives in the Texas hill country with his wife of thirty-plus years. Follow Bruce on Bookbub and Goodreads for the latest new release info and recommendations. Learn more at brucehammack.com. 

Book preview

Chapter One

The hotel’s smoke alarms blared, causing Fen to bolt upright in bed. Confused as to the date, time, and place, he swung his legs off the bed and dry-washed his face. It didn’t take long to put things in order; he needed to get out.

Bailey! The single word escaped his lips as he reached for his boots beside the bed. Was she in her room? No—she’d slept a good portion of the way from Central Texas to Wichita Falls and wanted to burn off energy in the hotel’s pool while he took an early-evening nap.

The alarms continued to shriek their warnings to get out of the building. He’d have to trust that Bailey found her way to safety. Wallet, keys, and phone from the nightstand went into the pocket of a Carhart winter coat. The brown, felt Stetson was the last item he grabbed.

In the hall, he joined several guests as they made their way to the nearest exit. He believed Bailey was downstairs in the indoor pool, but he banged on her door, anyway.

No answer, and the alarms continued their insistent screams. He smelled smoke, but it was faint and none oozed from the edges of the doors he passed. No time to play firefighter. He made for the end of the hall, held the door open for a family of five, and followed them into the stairwell. One flight down and through a door was all it took before he joined others in the rain and sleet.

Realizing he was at the rear of the building, he set out to circle around to the front, hoping to find Bailey. He also remembered that’s where he’d parked his truck.

The first firetruck approached with sirens screaming and lights ablaze. It turned into the hotel’s entry as he rounded the building’s corner. A fire department supervisor’s SUV had arrived by the time he made it to his truck. The windows of his new one-ton dually with a camper shell had frozen over. Fen turned the key and waited until the battery warmed the glow plugs before starting the diesel engine. He turned the heat on before stepping back into the elements to look for Bailey.

Because she was short of stature, it took a while for him to pick her out of the crowd. He jogged to her, taking off his coat as he approached. All she had on was her bathing suit, flip-flops, and a short cover-up, which was already wet.

His coat all but swallowed her whole, which was a good thing. Let’s get in the truck.

Sleet stuck to her wet hair, and her teeth chattered like dice in a leather shaker. That didn’t stop her from saying, J.W.’s coming too.

J.W.?

Fen looked at the young man standing at Bailey’s side wearing only a bathing suit, boots, and a towel draped over his head. A lock of wet, coal-black hair hung down his forehead. This was no time for introductions or questions as all three were shivering and frozen rain blew sideways.

They piled into the truck, with Fen in the driver’s seat, J.W. in the passenger’s seat, and Bailey in his lap. Fen didn’t much care for the thought of his nineteen-year-old ward sitting on the lap of the handsome young man, but the back seat held a full load of canvases and art supplies. The large center console meant necessity won the skirmish over propriety.

The chattering of their teeth kept time with the clatter of the diesel engine. He pushed up the engine’s RPMs to twenty-five hundred to shorten the time until heat would fill the truck. It seemed to take forever, but warm air mercifully blew through the vents.

In the meantime, an additional firetruck arrived along with several police vehicles. Red and blue lights reflected off every shiny surface.

Bailey finally spoke as a second wave of first responders entered the building. Fen, this is J.W. Ellison. I met him when we were here in September.

The young man looked to be the same age as Bailey. "Pleased to meet you, J.W. I was wondering why Bailey insisted on coming back to Wichita Falls in December. The monthly After Hours Artwalk Festival ended in October."

J.W. studies art at Midwestern State University.

Pleased to meet you, Mr. Maguire. I’m a huge fan of your landscapes. I insisted Mother buy the one you did of the Guadalupe River. She gave it to me as a birthday present.

His words sounded like they came from the bottom of an empty rain barrel. He was a tall, lanky young man, perhaps with a dose of Native-American blood in him as evidenced by the sparse facial hair.

Fen continued to study the young man’s face. I remember the sale, and your mother. Tell her how much I appreciate it. He paused. Didn’t you have a booth at the September art fair?

Yes, sir. Several of us students pitched in and shared the cost. We made enough to cover our expenses with a little left over.

The wail of additional sirens split the night. A bevy of police SUVs arrived, followed by an ambulance.

Something’s wrong, said Fen.

Bailey shifted. Duh. There’s a fire.

Fen shook his head. It’s something else. Too many police.

The defroster had done its job, and the truck’s windshield wipers made occasional passes that allowed them to see clearly. Another ten minutes ticked away and two unmarked police vehicles arrived.

Look, said Bailey. They’re allowing guests to go inside.

Uh-huh, said Fen. They’re going in, but only a few at a time. Let’s wait until they get those poor souls out of the weather.

Rain and sleet-soaked guests reentered the building until only a couple who were smoking cigarettes remained outside. Our turn, said Bailey. I can’t wait to get a hot shower.

The front door parted with a whoosh as the trio approached. The cold air lifted the garland on the eight-foot Christmas tree in the lobby and settled into place again as the door closed behind them. Two uniformed police officers met them.

Room number? said the first.

203, said Fen.

The man raised his head and gave a sideways look. Go to the first room on your right. He pointed to a long hallway that led to the elevators.

Fen took a couple of steps forward which cleared the way for Bailey to speak. The officer asked for her room number after staring at her longer than necessary.

Bailey Madison. Room 204.

Both officers came on point and traded conspiratorial nods. First room on your right.

That left J.W. and some stragglers behind him. Name and room number, demanded the officer.

I’m here visiting the young lady. As you can see, we were in the pool.

Follow your girlfriend to the first door on the right.

What’s this all about? asked Bailey.

Instead of answering, the second policeman issued a warning. Do as you’re told. First door on your right.

Fen bristled at the curt reaction but held his words in check. Bailey wasn’t so inclined. No need to be rude. It’s not illegal to ask questions.

If you say one more word, you’re going in cuffs.

One more word. Bailey gave the officer a hard stare. I’m cold, tired, and not in the mood for a couple of rude cops.

The officer reached behind his back and produced a pair of handcuffs. Hands behind your back.

Fen stepped forward. Is your body camera on?

The officer turned his attention to Fen. It’s a good thing I carry two sets. You’re being detained, too.

What’s the charge?

Suspicion.

That’s not a crime. You’ll need to do better.

It’s enough in this town. Give me your ID.

It’s in my back pocket. I’m not going to reach for it because as soon as I do, you’ll say I was reaching for a weapon.

The officer pointed. Hands on the wall.

The first officer joined in. That goes for you lovebirds, too.

Or what? said Bailey.

Or you’ll go to jail for obstruction. He gripped the yellow and black tazer on his utility belt.

Don’t even think about it, said Fen.

The door opened to the room they’d been instructed to go to, and the family he’d seen on the second floor came out. Wide eyes took in the spectacle.

A plainclothes policewoman trailed behind the family and asked, What’s going on, Charley?

They’re refusing to comply. Rooms 203 and 204. I’ve detained them.

That’s a lie. This jerk won’t answer a simple question. Bailey faced the officer. You still haven’t told us why you’re treating us like we did something wrong. She shrugged her shoulders and Fen’s coat fell to the floor. She then pulled up her cover-up, showing a lot of skin and not much of a bathing suit. After turning a circle, she glared at the officer. I’m ready for a pat down, if that’s how you get your jollies.

Fen had his hands against the wall, but continued to look over his shoulder as the second officer took his wallet from his back pocket. He announced, This guy’s name is James Fenimore Maguire.

Fen said, Run a 29 on me and check with NCIC before you make bigger fools of yourself.

J.W. found his voice. Sheriff Maguire, can I insist on calling my mother now, or do I need to wait?

Fen saw the woman he thought to be a detective roll her eyes. Put the cuffs away and give the man his wallet. The young man is J.W. Ellison, Jr. After you two apologize, show them into the room.

Bailey picked up the coat, put it on, and zipped it all the way. Hope you two perverts enjoyed the free look.

Fen shot her a gaze that spoke without words that she’d made her point and to pull in her claws. She’d come a long way from her wayward upbringing in Houston, but every now and then the old attitude toward authority reared its ugly head.

With the wallet retrieved, and without an apology, the three made their way to the open door. The detective closed it behind them. Sorry again for the rough treatment. I’m Detective Margaret Sibley. She swept a hand in the direction of a man who scowled at them. This is Senior Detective Jay Grimes.

Detective Sibley wore jeans, a western-cut shirt, puffy vest, and boots that looked like they’d seen plenty of wear. She was a tad bow-legged, indicating she likely was no stranger to riding a horse. The handshake was firm, like she meant to convey she was comfortable with shaking hands with a former sheriff. Moving only hazel eyes, her gaze fixed upon the young man. Hello, J.W. How’s your momma?

Busy as usual. She’s in charge of the Christmas parade again this year. J.W. tilted his head. What’s going on? Was there a fire?

The two detectives traded glances before the older of the two spoke, We’ll get to details in a minute, let me make sure we’re clear on who everyone is. We know J.W. and his mother. In fact, everyone in a hundred miles knows her. He looked at Fen. Did I hear you’re Sheriff Maguire?

Former sheriff. I was a state trooper for ten years then sheriff of Newton County for another ten.

Detective Grimes snapped his fingers. Maguire. Yeah, didn’t you have to take a medical retirement from the highway patrol after someone shot you?

Fen nodded. I limped on that gimpy leg for years. I finally had a knee replacement.

A chill shook J.W., but he picked up the conversation. Mr. Maguire is a world-class artist. He’s taking over for Professor Shirley at MSU. The doctors have her on bedrest until the baby comes.

I hear it’s going to be a Christmas baby, said Detective Sibley.

Both detectives cast their gaze to Bailey. Fen answered their unasked question. This is Bailey Madison. I guess you could say she’s my protégé.

Bailey explained. He’s teaching me how to paint. I live in an apartment over his garage.

Fen and Bailey traded glances. She’s a promising young artist. Once I get the rough edges knocked off of her, she’ll be ready to strike out on her own.

After trading nods, Detective Grimes got down to business. Back to why we’re here. The reason the two officers were so interested in you is because first responders found a body in room 205.

That’s next door to my room, said Bailey.

Detective Grimes nodded. That was also the source of the smoke that set off the alarm.

An overcooked bag of popcorn caught fire, said Detective Sibley.

Fen leaned forward. A bag of popcorn doesn’t explain the massive police response.

The senior detective seemed to choose his words with care. We’re treating this as a suspicious death.

There was much more to the story than what the detectives would say. Fen came to two quick conclusions: First, the three of them had nothing to do with the death of the person in room 205. Second, a ride to the police department’s interview rooms might still be in their future.

Chapter Two

Detective Sibley stood. We need formal statements from each of you. I’ll go with you next door. There’re plenty of tables and chairs so you can spread out.

Fen understood the reason for separating people while they wrote their statements. The detectives wanted accounts of events without cross-contamination. It’s what he’d do if he were in their boots.

He looked at a harried couple with two young children and concluded their room must be near his and Bailey’s. The mother tried her best to corral the youngest child while writing as fast as she could. The father had the eldest sitting on the floor beside him.

Fen sat at a desk that was far away from Bailey and J.W. Despite the detective’s instructions, they chose to sit next to each other. Detective Sibley made her way over and handed him a boilerplate form with Witness Statement written across the top. Fen said, I’m not sure I remember how to do this. He followed it up with a mischievous grin.

The woman played along. I hear that all the time from ex-sheriffs staying in hotels where people die. Do the best you can.

Ah, said Fen in a whisper. I could tell by the overreaction of the two officers screening guests that this was a homicide. Is the victim a man I might know?

She glanced around the room. I doubt it, unless you subscribe to the local paper. She leaned over. I’d love to tell you, but my partner would have me writing parking tickets. It’s much too cold to be on foot downtown.

He held up both hands in surrender. No problem. I wouldn’t want you getting frostbite. Besides, the victim’s name will be all over town within the hour.

What makes you say that?

This city may have a population of over a hundred thousand, but it has a small-town feel. You didn’t deny the victim was a male. The interest shown by you, Detective Grimes, and the two cops who wanted to arrest first and ask questions later tells me you know the dead man. More than likely, he’s well known.

Nice try, Sheriff Maguire, but I still won’t give you the name. She tapped on the form. You’d better get to work. Ms. Madison and J.W. don’t look like they want to spend the rest of their evening waiting for you to complete your statement.

Lucky for me, it’ll be short. After a full day of driving, I was sound asleep until that rude fire alarm put an end to one of the best naps I’ve had in a long time.

She walked to the door and motioned with a crooked finger. One of the two officers they’d had the run-in with came in to proctor the room.

It took Fen five paragraphs to give the details of his reason for being in the hotel and his actions after the fire alarm sounded.

Detective Sibley waited for the three in the hallway. She looked at J.W. Are your clothes in the pool area?

Uh… no. He looked like a little boy caught sneaking a Christmas cookie. Actually, I left everything but my boots in Bailey’s bathroom. That’s where I changed.

Fen looked at Bailey with raised eyebrows. She came back with, Where was he supposed to change? There’s no dressing room by the pool.

You can’t go to your rooms until forensics finishes. Bailey’s room adjoins the room where the man died. The policewoman shifted her gaze to Bailey. Did you check the deadbolt on the door between the two rooms?

Why would I? said Bailey with impatience. Her hair was wet and her feet had a purple hue to them. No doubt she was cold and miserable.

Bailey was on the verge of a major eruption. He’d challenged her morals and damaged their bond of trust. There was a perfectly logical explanation for J.W. being in her room and he’d assumed the worst. That hadn’t set well with her.

He then realized Detective Sibley had done the same, but the question posed by the detective showed a probability Bailey and J.W. were suspects. He needed to act fast before Bailey’s mouth earned them all a trip to a less comfortable place.

Bailey, said Fen. The three of us are going to the hotel’s restaurant and have a nice, long dinner. I could use a cup of very hot coffee and a thick steak.

Bailey tried to tent her hands on her hips, but the sleeves of the coat hung below her fingertips. Frustration set in. I look like a half-drowned cat, and my feet are blocks of ice.

The detective came to the rescue. You won’t be alone. Everyone on your wing of the second floor must wait in the restaurant or lobby until we go over their statements.

Fen tried to mollify her. At least you’re fully covered. My coat comes down to your knees.

The huff of air showed Bailey was unconvinced. What about J.W.?

Once again, Detective Sibley had an answer. The hotel is providing blankets and fresh towels to anyone who stops at the front desk.

J.W. put an end to the conversation when he said, Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine as soon as I get a blanket. He turned to Fen. I’ll have to owe you for the meal until I get my wallet.

Fen shooed away the offer. "Your mother didn’t quibble about the price of